As Time Goes By In a Chain Restaurant

I knew the date would bomb when I drove by and saw her standing sulkily in front of the restaurant upon which we'd reluctantly agreed; a frumpy mess in all black, she wasn't fooling anyone. My night's well-groomed attire felt like a waste. It was never possible to pull off when it mattered. I, for a change, was looking halfway decent; or perhaps the upper hand simply made me feel that way.

The weight in her face made her seem like a liar or a drunk or, most logically, both. I'd learned that last truism the hard way and tucked it inside my chest pocket. This glutton for punishment marched through the parking lot and greeted his damsel in obvious distress, swearing in his mind with every step that blind dates and downcast camera angles should be banned from the Constitution. It wasn't going to get the best of me, though. "If she can take it, I can take it," I assured myself and the invisible black pianist.

The seats are taken, the stage is set. We order after perusing the menu for ten minutes. When the food finally comes I'm practically ecstatic. Not even the man-sized margarita had made trudging through conversation tolerable. The Lord works in mysterious ways, sometimes via Mexican cuisine.

"The salsa looks good," she says between bites. It's actually a coarsely-chopped pico de gallo, but her ignorance goes unpunished. Pointing out the difference between salsa and what's on my plate would be like correcting a first-grader for calling a crocodile an alligator. It'd be like accusing a true friend of thievery. It'd be like trusting anyone: pointless.

"It's as good as it looks," I say, mouth agape, trying to convey the onions. "Lots of cilantro." They say those who dislike cilantro have more highly developed taste buds. It's supposed to taste like soap to people who are further down the evolutionary path. I'm not ashamed of being simple. I relish in my caveman state. It makes the mirror easier.

She pokes and prods at her salad, but none of it seems to disappear, much like a pasta dish's conundrum. The curvy girls get salad, the rails get cheese fries, and the Puerto Ricans get Mexican food. It makes as much sense as moving to Morocco.

"I'm full already," she admits, a hint of pride in her retraint hiding behind her tonsils.

"Don't force yourself, really. It's fine. The rent's paid up."

She smirks, unsure if I'm kidding or not. My face doesn't break, I don't come out of character with a chuckle or a grin. Years of practice in dry delivery make it feasible. My restraint is more sharpened than hers. Something tells me my everything is more everything than hers, it's part of the reason I know this'll be the last time I see her. There's comfort in that. There's comfort in every loss if one looks hard enough.

It doesn't seem worth it to impress her with cash. Let her think it'll take me five months to pay off this mistake of a meal. The waiter can run my plastic if it means keeping green in my wallet. Currency's convenient, fast, liquid. I'm drowning in this date, a miniature me in the shot glass of sour cream served with my quesadillas; but the wounded shepherd surrenders to fate. He'll ride out the rest for chivalry's sake and an addition to his quiver of sharp, quickened stories. The thought of the tragic comedy obtained makes it easier to wave my hand in a swatting motion as she reaches for her purse when the check finally comes.

"Not even half?" she asks daintily like a dark-featured Ingrid Bergman sticking to the script.

"Not even the tip," I reply, sans fedora and cigar. The plane's taking off, alright, but I can't wait to put her on it. Sam, my trusty black friend, will never play this again, and I am grateful; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life.